


dig it up (and tear it down)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward doesn't need to know why it's a relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dig it up (and tear it down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> Wooooooo! A very, VERY happy birthday to the spectacular and beautiful JD, who is a gift unto this fandom and, indeed, the world. I hope your day is even half as amazing as you are! <3
> 
> As noted in the tag, there are some consent issues at play here. If you're likely to be triggered by this--or even if you're just wary--please feel free to proceed to the end notes for details.
> 
> Title is from Seether's _Fmlyhm_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma isn’t entirely sure how they got here, how the usual pattern of Ward’s threats and her insults turned into snogging, but she can’t, in all honesty, complain.

The kiss is punishing—hardly a surprise, considering their animosity—but, for all that, highly enjoyable. There’s heat curling in her abdomen, a low throb beginning between her thighs, and as his arm tightens around her waist in response to the nails she drags along his jaw, she’s giving serious thought to sex against a wall. She thinks he’d be amenable; certainly the knee he slots between hers seems to suggest so.

And goodness knows he’s got enough space for it, in this massive office—

And that thought trips her up, because they’re _in his office_. His office in his building, in which he’s kept her prisoner for four months now.

Sex with her captor could have consequences. Consequences she’s not certain she’s willing to invite.

Her toes are curling and her need is building by the second. She wants him desperately, wants to ignore the reality of her situation and just _feel_ , but she hasn’t survived this long as a HYDRA prisoner by being stupid.

She has to ask.

“Wait,” she gasps, tearing her mouth away from his—and to his credit, Ward does.

…If not terribly patiently. “ _What_.”

She leans back, putting a bit of distance between them without actually leaving his embrace. It’s not easy; if she thought he was attractive before, it’s nothing to what he looks like now, eyes darkened by desire and jaw tight with the effort of holding back.

But this is important, so she forces herself to focus.

“If we do this,” she says, shifting her hips against his for emphasis, “will you let me go?”

Something passes over Ward’s face, and he frowns, easing back a bit himself.

“Kind of messed up to keep a woman prisoner after fucking her,” he muses, eyes drifting away from hers as he considers it. “But on the other hand…yeah. No.” His eyes return to hers. “You’re too valuable to let go. Whether we do this or not, you’re not going anywhere.”

Relief unfurls in her gut, and she exhales.

“Good.”

He blinks, obviously surprised, but she kisses him before he can question her, and the conversation is quickly set aside in favor of more snogging.

He doesn’t need to know why it’s a relief.

The fact of the matter is, she’s made far too many compromises already. She’s sacrificed her morals and her code of ethics for the sake of her own well-being, buckled under the weight of his threats and done things she considers reprehensible, just to save her own life. She’s so much weaker than she thought she was, so quickly putting her life above the lives of the countless others who will be harmed by what she’s done for Ward; she’s made concession after concession, and the idea that this might become more of the same—offering up her body as a means of gaining freedom—sat very poorly with her.

But if he _won’t_ let her go free after this, then she can just enjoy it. She can have sex with him because she _wants_ it, because he’s attractive and she’s always been curious, because it’s been ages since she’s been touched, and not for anything else.

It’s not to gain an advantage. It’s pure desire—desire that sparks even higher as Ward bites down hard on her lower lip.

“Stop thinking,” he orders breathlessly, and for all that she’s spent the past four months fighting tooth and nail against his every directive, this is one she’s eager to obey.

So she does.

She stops thinking, lets go of her worries and her regret and her shame, and loses herself in him. His kiss is demanding, his hair surprisingly soft between her fingers, his thigh hard between hers. He’s managed to get a hand inside her shirt without properly unbuttoning it, and her whole body thrums as he thumbs at a nipple.

It’s almost too much sensation—his hands and his mouth and not nearly enough pressure against the aching desperation between her thighs, and when she tears her mouth away from his again (this time to breathe), she does so with a whine.

Ward mouths his way across her jaw and then down her neck, alternating between sharp bites and soft kisses, and she’s so dizzied by it that she doesn’t even realize he’s unbuttoned her shirt until he’s shoving it off her shoulders. Her bra follows in short order, and her brain (unusually slow today) finally catches up to the situation.

“Nudity,” she pants—she can’t catch her breath, it seems—as he makes his way down her chest. “Yes. Excellent plan.”

She sets herself to unbuttoning _his_ shirt—a difficult task, as he’s reached her breasts and is very distractingly lavishing attention upon them, all rough stubble and warm mouth and _oh,_ yes, there, there is good—

“Should’ve known this wouldn’t shut you up,” Ward laughs against her skin, and she’s torn between annoyance ( _that_ was rude), embarrassment (was she speaking aloud?), and a sharp spike of arousal, as his laugh makes her shiver helplessly and ground down against his thigh.

Annoyance and embarrassment are nothing new, with him. She decides to just embrace the arousal.

She manages, somehow, to get his shirt off of him, depsite the electricty running from her breasts (he’s sucking a mark into one as he palms the other, calluses and teeth and _oh_ ) to her core, but she instantly regrets it, because the moment  his shirt hits the floor, he straightens, abandoning her breasts and stepping back.

“What—?” she starts to ask, but his hands are at his belt and right, yes, nudity. She hurries to follow suit, kicking off her shoes and shoving her jeans and knickers down, and the moment she steps out of them and kicks them aside, his hands land on her hips.

“Let’s make this very clear,” he says, voice low enough to make her shudder. “There’s no threat here, and there’s no deal. You can change your mind right now and I won’t touch you, but either way, tomorrow you’re back to work.”

That’s…oddly touching, actually, that he cares enough to clarify the lack of threat. (She’s been a prisoner for far too long.)

“I still hate you,” she says, running her hands up his chest. She’s never before touched it without gloves, and it is, objectively speaking, _spectacular_. “But this is my choice. No threats, no deals. I want you,” she says, slowly and deliberately, “to fuck me. That’s all.”

His smile is sharp—and insufferably smug. “Happy to comply.”

Ugh. Is he actually joking about brainwashing? What an _ass_.

But his mouth lands on hers again, and she forgets to be annoyed by his joke, however poor in taste. His hands wander—sliding over her rear and then down her thighs, back up to her breasts and down again to her waist—as she explores his torso with her fingers, taking great pleasure in the way his abdomen flutters under her touch.

Eventually, they’re forced to break for air once more, and she’s surprised to realize he’s backed them up against his desk. He gives her a little push, just enough that she’s perching on the end of it, and then turns his attention to her neck.

He retraces the path he took earlier, kissing and biting along the column of her throat, and she grips him by the shoulders, intending to urge him further down—only to end up digging her nails in when his hand suddenly finds her cunt.

She gasps out his name, feels his smile against her neck as he slides a finger into her, testing her readiness. In short order, it’s joined by another, and she’s left helpless to do anything but claw at his shoulders and writhe as his clever fingers drive her absolutely mad.

She comes with his fingers crooked inside of her and his thumb on her clit, and she shakes through it, a nonsense babble of his name and _yes_ and _please_ spilling from her lips as he draws her out, drowning her in white-hot pleasure.

She’s still shivering, a bit, when he removes his fingers, and she whimpers at the loss.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Ward grins, tugging her to her feet. “We’re just getting started.”

The endearment is unwelcome, and she means to tell him so. Then he’s turning her to face the desk and shoving her down onto it, and her reprimand becomes a scream as he thrusts into her.

She’s still weak-kneed and sensitive from her first orgasm; it’s all she can do to brace her hands against the desk as he fucks her.

And this, this is good. It’s maybe even better than her earlier thoughts of sex against the wall, because this way she doesn’t have to look at him, doesn’t have to stare at his hatefully gorgeous face—she can just _feel_ him, every inch of him, inside and out: his solid chest on her and his harsh thrusts in her and a rough hand bruising as it wanders. His stubble scrapes against her skin as he bites at the top of her spine and the backs of her shoulders, and somehow it’s even more affecting than the attention he paid her breasts.

Then he finds a spot just left of her right shoulder blade, and oh— _oh_ —

(Who knew she had an erogenous zone in such an odd place? Certainly not Jemma.)

She’s talking, again, that same stream of incoherent babble, but this time, Ward’s not quiet, either. He swears as she clenches around him, bites out another ‘baby’ or two, as well as her name, orders her to come when his fingers find her clit—and then, as he follows her over the edge, he shouts.

There’s something very satisfying about causing him to lose his composure and, trapped under his weight after they both collapse onto the desk, she smiles into her forearm.

“What was that about _me_ not shutting up?” she asks, a touch hoarsely.

Ward kisses her shoulder. “Never said it was a bad thing.”

He shifts a bit, bracing himself on his elbows so less of his weight is on her, but makes no move to actually get off of her. She finds she doesn’t mind.

…Actually, it’s a bit disquieting how much it doesn’t bother her.

“I still hate you,” she says.

“And I’m still not letting you go,” he says, with a nip to the curve of her ear. She shivers, and he hisses in a breath. “So nothing’s changed.”

Her eyes are drawn to the folder at the edge of the desk—or, more accurately, the dark red logo stamped on its cover, the horrible bloody _octopus_ that follows her everywhere she goes in this damned building. It’s the same color as the blood under her nails—his blood, from the gouges she scratched in his shoulders earlier.

“Nothing at all,” she agrees, and closes her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> There are consent issues at play here; while Jemma is very much _willing_ , she's not really in a position to meaningfully consent, as she's being held prisoner. The sex doesn't happen under any threat and Ward wouldn't have forced her, but all she's got to go on for that is his word. So this is definitely sketchy, even if Jemma herself isn't viewing it that way.


End file.
